


The Cookbook

by StarberryCupcake



Series: There is room in heaven for all the stars [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Food, Friendship, M/M, Other, a lot of food descriptions, and there are recipes inside, it's a characterization fic mainly, it's a cooking fic, of sorts, there's a touch of romance but mostly friendship, they all cook, with lots of food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/pseuds/StarberryCupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>In a group of friends, flavors can speak volumes about who each and every one is and where they come from, which history they are made of and what path they are taking. For them, food was a part of their group, as much as battered red flags, crowded corners in cafes and shouts that were written on campaign posters.</em><br/>A story about friendship, bonds, personal history and lots of food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cookbook

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this is different for me, so I'm going to explain something before we begin. The idea of this fic is mainly to describe each of them through the food they cook, so I didn't want to make it a "everyone's dating someone else from the group" kind of fic because I thought it would take away from individual characterization in most cases, the only two exceptions are Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta and Cosette/Marius, because I felt those ships were helpful to explain some things. The dynamic between Enjolras and Grantaire is always particular (to say the least) even if I don't write them as an explicit ship, but I tried to make it as open to interpretation as I could, because I didn't want the fic to turn into an E/R fic when it was supposed to be centered in all of them. Still, since I do ship them it's difficult for me to see whether I've been neutral enough, the idea is that if you ship them you could read it as such and if you don't then you wouldn't have to, I wonder if I succeeded. I hope you enjoy, bon appétit .

Food can mean lots of things. In some cases, it feels like home; in others, like something new. There are times in which it reminds people of someone else and others when it fits with their own selves. In a group of friends, flavors can speak volumes about who each and every one is and where they come from, which history they are made of and what path they are taking. For them, food was a part of their group, as much as battered red flags, crowded corners in cafes and shouts that were written on campaign posters.

* * *

At least once every two months they all asked Courfeyrac to cook his famous paella for them. Courfeyrac’s moms, Alejandra and Marie, had raised him in a home that was a blend of Spanish culture with French traditions, and Alejandra’s paella had passed to her from her dad, born and raised in Valencia, and found a new generation in Courfeyrac. The sharp spice of the pepper and the warm favor of the chorizo sausage, together with the freshness of mussels and the tempting smell of cilantro, was a mixture that identified Courfeyrac as much as his charming smile and wayward curls. He also cooked, in a smaller _paellera_ , a vegetarian option, especially for Jehan but knowing quite well that the rest of them were going to try it out regardless.

“That smells amazing!” Bossuet felt like carried into the kitchen by smell alone, levitating on the fumes like a cartoon character.

“Of course it does, it’s my family recipe” Courfeyac smiled with pride while stirring the rice and singing along to Sabina’s music.

Bahorel tried to subtly dip a piece of fresh bread into the tempting seafood dish, but Courfeyrac swatted their hand away immediately.

“You touch my _mariscos_ and you lose your hand” he didn't stop smiling, what made the threat even scarier.

That threatening smile had also been passed to him by Alejandra, along with Courfeyrac’s easy sense of humor.

Courfeyrac’s paella was, like him, charming and warm; and, served in the center of the table for everyone to gather around and share, it responded to Courfeyrac’s unique nature. It was all about spice, flavor and love, just like Alejandra had taught him.

* * *

Musichetta had grown up in a family of mixed traditions as well: her mother had been born in Oxford before moving to France, and her dad had been born in Mumbai, in a world of spices and flavors that he had passed on to his daughter. From the blend of these two people two legacies had been born: their only daughter, Musichetta, and their family recipe of chicken tikka masala.

It was not often that Joly adventured in foods with lots of spices that could possibly raise the levels of acidity in his stomach. He always thought where he was going the next day before eating dinner: if he had an easy day and he could lay in bed in case of a medical emergency, he dared to eat differently; but if he had a shift in the morning or something important to attend to, especially far away from home, he went for simple white rice. Musichetta’s chicken tikka, though, was one of the two dishes with which he made an exception. And Musichetta knew it; she valued it and cherished it more than she would a diamond ring or a flower bouquet, because it was the kind of gift that counted.

She had perfected the recipe through the years, to create the right combination of the spices she loved, the heat Bossuet was at ease with and something that would keep Joly calm and happy.  The result was of a great flavor and amazing smell, a delicious gluten-free version of the dish where cayenne pepper and garam masala were accompanied by minced ginger and cumin; where the lean meat of the chicken was soft and juicy; where the tomato paste, onions and garlic were combined with yogurt for that characterizing taste of chicken tikka. Musichetta’s food was passionate and loving, like the three of them.

“Chetta, you’re a goddess” Éponine sighed as she took a spoonful of her second plate of chicken.

“The seasoning is _so_ good!” Courfeyrac was in his third plate, and both Feuilly and Bahorel were eyeing him carefully, dare he take another one and leave nothing to the rest of them.

“The vegetable-only version is amazing as well” Jehan smiled, savoring zir vegetarian option of the dish.

“I’d gladly take on gastritis for Chetta’s chicken tikka” Joly jokingly commented.

They laughed, but they understood the meaning behind it. Joly would rather take on his anxiety the next day, the nervousness that enhanced every stomach cramp, most of them more emotional than related to the food he had consumed, than let Musichetta down.

“My chicken tikka has magical healing powers, sweetheart, it could never hurt you because I love you” she leaned towards Joly, sitting on her right, and kissed his cheek gently.

“And if that doesn't work and you feel sick tomorrow, call me and I’ll pick you up from wherever” Bossuet, who had him on his left, did the same.

“In that case, I’ll take seconds, please!” Joly smiled so brightly that they all just had to smile back.

Musichetta kissed him again after serving him his new plate. Another one filled with the most sincere kind of love, the kind that represented her so well.

* * *

Jehan was a sorcerer, not a cook. Zir little shabby kitchen with floral curtains and skull-shaped mugs was more like the place where an alchemist would transmute something rather than where someone would cook meals. Zie baked with herbs, flowers and the most unusual ingredients. There was always some smell lingering in the air, something a bit sweet, a bit sour, a tad citric, a touch floral. No one could put a finger on what the smell was, they couldn't even say for sure if they understood it, it just was what it was and they loved it. Just like Jehan.

There were jars, very big glass jars with beautifully written labels, filled with ingredients that could as easily be featured in a magic potion as they were on Jehan’s recipes. Everything was natural with Jehan’s cooking, because zie said the purity of the ingredients had to be respected. It was like being invited to a meal in the forest by the fae folk, when you had afternoon tea with Jehan.

Zie made zir own tea blends: dehydrated apple with cinnamon and nutmeg, Chinese white peony tea with peppermint leaves and chrysanthemum flowers, lavender buds with Stevia leaves and lemon verbena, Valerian root with lemongrass and hibiscus flower. Each had a different flavor and a specific purpose: insomnia, nerves, sadness, indigestion; according to Jehan, tea could change the world.

But tea parties in Jehan’s home weren't just about the tea. The same ingredients were also featured in some of the tastiest and most colorful treats you could imagine. Some days they were greeted with the purple and white softness of lavender macaroons, others they found the airy goodness of Matcha tea steamed buns (because of course Jehan owned a bamboo steamer), and during summer, the Matcha tea was used for the most amazing vegan Matcha and banana home-made ice cream.

“I could die here and go peacefully” Courfeycac sighed, his head on Jehan’s lap and his mouth covered in purple macaroon crumbs.

“That is the best compliment you could give me” Jehan played with Courfeyrac’s curls while sipping tea from zir favorite skull mug: Lady Lazarus.

“I’m normally more carnivore than a t-rex…actually, I’m as awesome as a t-rex too…” Bahorel commented “but I love your herbal sorcery shit” they smiled “and I say ‘shit’ as a compliment”

“Of course you do” Feuilly took a Matcha bun and was delighted to see the steam coming from inside it as ey tore it apart with care “your lexicon is less impressive than mine and I’m mostly self-taught”

Bahorel then took one of the scones with rhubarb, rose and strawberry jam and threw it directly to Feuilly’s face, which would have been a certain hit, had Grantaire not moved towards the table to re-fill his cup in that very moment.

Grantaire turned to Bahorel with a threatening glint in his eyes, a smirk taking over his features and Bahorel responded with an equivalent gesture. It was _on_.

“You dare start a food fight and disrespect my creations and you’ll wish you’d never met me” Jehan’s pleasant smile wouldn't give away any real threat to someone who didn't belong to the group of friends, but Courfeyrac shivered under zir touch and both Grantaire and Bahorel, with their imposing kick-boxing figures, retreated like scared puppies.

Jehan’s cooking was intense yet natural, magical and unique, just like Jehan zirself.

* * *

Combeferre was a man of organization and purpose. He was the one everyone relied on for calmness and composure in moments of stress and the one they went for direction in times of need. But Combeferre lost all his composure and dignity when it came to chocolate and coffee. Needless to say, the day he discovered tiramisu became a before-and-after moment in his life.

Combeferre’s tiramisu was exquisite because Combeferre’s standards for tiramisu were high. The soft and sweet texture of the ladyfingers was complemented with the bitter taste of the coffee, mixed in with a touch of Porto wine, to enhance the flavor. The creamy taste of the mascarpone cheese and the whipped cream might have been enough for a traditional tiramisu recipe, but Combeferre had perfected his version of chocolate Zabaglione to add into the dish, and dark chocolate shavings topped everything off. Combeferre’s tiramisu was irresistible. People fell in love with Combeferre’s dish and wanted to marry it, that’s how good it was.

“Should I tag this as nsfw?” Courfeyrac asked while taking a picture of his piece of dessert for Instagram.

“God, Combeferre, this is _illegal_ ” Éponine moaned, not even trying to hide her reaction to the dish “and I should know about illegal stuff…”

“How can you both live with him and not ask him to make this all the time?” Feuilly inquired both Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

“I’d probably die if I ate this all the time” Courfeyrac didn't look at them, he was too busy choosing a proper filter for his photo.

“You can appreciate it better if it’s not a very recurrent dish to eat, food is not…” Enjolras began, but he was cut off shortly after.

“Of course, you don’t care about what you eat, not even this piece of heaven” Grantaire mocked, and some of them laughed along.

Enjolras stayed silent, he didn't even try to reply, which was not a regular occurrence in his dynamic with Grantaire’s comments.

“I’d rather not make it every day, I agree with Enjolras” Combeferre smiled and Enjolras’s eyes lightened up again.

“True” Courfeyrac winked on Enjolras’s direction and the three of them shared a knowing glance.

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew why Enjolras had stayed silent, but it was not something he was ready to share with everyone yet. Combeferre’s tiramisu was not only perfect because of what he liked but also because it was usually another thing that he shared with his two best friends.

* * *

Cosette loved to bake. She had many hand-painted aprons that, when she baked, covered her cute and extremely originally designed plus size dresses, and made the task even more personal and enjoyable for her.

She had learned how to bake from the nun who worked in the kitchen of the convent school she had lived in; right after her father took her in. The nun was a plump lady with a radiant smile who made the most amazing pastries in the world…or, at least, that’s how they tasted to little Cosette, who had barely ever had a croissant before meeting her. Every afternoon after school, back when she was barely tall enough to reach the counter, Cosette had visited her to learn how to bake; and growing up, it had become her way to feel at ease after a stressful day or a sad evening. Whenever her papa needed to be cheered up, she always baked something for him and it never failed to make him smile.

But one thing about Cosette, something even more characteristic than her cute plus size dresses and her amazing baking, was that she was the kind of person who was so observant and filled with empathy that she could easily notice exactly what you needed. She gave the most personal presents, the most thoughtful advice and, in this particular case, the perfect cupcake to each and every one of her group of friends.

“Red velvet with chocolate ganache for Enjolras” she handed it to him and moved along, with her huge silver Victorian tray filled with the most colorful and varied set of cupcakes “coffee cream and walnut for Combeferre, chocolate with strawberry frosting for Courfeyrac, cinnamon and sugar with vanilla frosting for Bossuet,” it was a wonderful sight to see her chubby and colorful figure balancing that tray successfully and walking around the table of her vast dining room without dropping anything, handing out treats like it was Christmas morning “milk chocolate with mini-chips frosting and spice for Bahorel…”

“Hell yeah” Bahorel was able to eat the treat in one go, but liked to enjoy the experience when it came to Cosette’s baking.

“Strawberry cake with banana frosting for Joly, chocolate cake with vanilla buttercream and ganache for Éponine…”

“I hate you, you’re too perfect” she said when she was handed her personalized treat, and Cosette fondly kissed the top of her head before moving forward.

Éponine and Cosette had shared a past where good nutrition wasn't exactly the norm; and getting together to enjoy these small treats, after what they've gone through, had a very strong and powerful meaning to them.

“Chocolate chip cookie dough with buttercream for Musichetta, spice cake with cream cheese frosting and white chocolate ganache for Feuilly, rum cake with coconut frosting for Grantaire, lavender honey cake with cheese cream frosting for Jehan”

She reached the last guest and sat down beside him, handing him the cupcake with special kindness.

“White chocolate cake with raspberry frappe frosting for Marius” she smiled radiantly and Marius took the cupcake in his hands as if it was to be kept in a museum rather than eaten.

His eyes glowed with appreciation and mumbled a ‘thanks’ that only Cosette could hear.

“And, finally, chocolate cake with mint chocolate chips frosting for myself!” she sighed, exhausted but truly satisfied with the result.

“A round of applause for the baker!” Courfeyrac encouraged and they all cheered.

“Thirteen different cupcakes, you’re a saint” Musichetta commented between bites.

“Fourteen” Cosette corrected “there’s a maple cupcake with caramelized bacon on papa’s desk, for when he comes home”

Cosette was sensitive and understanding but more than anything, she could kick butt when it came to baking because she did it for those she loved.

* * *

Bossuet’s grandfather had been born and raised in New Orleans. Bossuet himself had lived there when he was a kid, until he moved back to Europe with his parents, but still visited his grandpa whenever he could and bathed in the color, the sounds, the smells, the music and, more than anything, the food.

There was one special recipe that had become Bossuet’s favorite and the one he could reproduce to perfection, one that all the bad luck in the world couldn't keep him from cooking marvelously: his grandfather’s gumbo.

Contrary to popular belief, Bossuet wasn't a clumsy guy; he was an unlucky fellow prone to disaster because fortune wasn't always on his side, but he was not clumsy or awkward when he knew he had to concentrate. This was why, despite his unlucky nature, he never _ever_ burned his roux. When Bossuet cooked his special gumbo, he was in the zone.

Onion and pepper released their scent in the air while the celery and garlic perfumed them, and the spice of the Andouille sausage added its flavor, warmth and richness. For Jehan, he made a vegetarian gumbo he had asked his grandpa to help him with the last time he had been in his house; it involved onion, pepper, celery, black eyed peas, brown rice and chard.

“Are you sure you want some more, Jol?” Bossuet asked with concern, serving another plate.

“You know that for your gumbo I’d endure everything, love” he smiled brightly “It’s perfect in every way, just like you”

“If we flatter you shamelessly, can we get some more too?” Courfeyrac extended his plate with his huge smile smeared in food.

“It only works that way with two people” Bossuet smirked, but gave them all another share, because he always prepared more than enough for everyone.

Bossuet’s gumbo was, just like him, rich in its spirit and made of simple things transformed into something amazing.

* * *

Grantaire was the kind of person who had three things in his fridge, two cans in his pantry, a full spice rack and half a cup of flour in a shelf and was still able to make dinner for at least ten people. Bahorel called him the Messiah of the kitchen, because he multiplied the food like nobody’s business. Even if he came from a family of mixed traditions too, with his mother being Jamaican, Grantaire's cooking had more to do with his day-to-day situation than with tradition or history. It was about him living in the moment and, as he put it, _'getting through everyday shit'_. 

So when the time came for them all to gather at Grantaire’s apartment for dinner, those who had never experienced “the biblical miracle that was Grantaire’s cooking”, as Bahorel put it, were quite worried when they saw the man’s kitchen.

“That’s all?” Enjolras commented, rising an eyebrow, as he opened Grantaire’s pantry, which contained more bottles of wine than actual food “Do you want us to go get something from the…”

“Enjolras, seriously, stop controlling everything” Grantaire interrupted him, taking a pan from heaven knows where “just go and I’ll let you know when it’s done”

“Grantaire, if you weren't able to buy groceries for whatever reason, we’d be more than glad to…”

The man turned around and faced Enjolras with a severe frown.

“I’m flattered by your assumptions, I really am” he answered with sarcasm “and I can’t blame you for not trusting me, I guess, but I wouldn't have invited you if I wasn't able to fucking feed you, Enjolras”

The blond frowned as well, visually upset, but didn't back down. 

“I wasn't trying to be rude, Grantaire, I was just concerned…”

“What do you know about food, anyway? You only eat take out shit. I promise I’ll feed you all, I haven’t spent all my money on wine.”

Before the confrontation escalated, Enjolras walked away towards the living room and Grantaire was left to work his magic. Magic that took the form of incredibly well-seasoned chicken nuggets with Grantaire’s interpretation of caramelized onion sauce (and eggplant nuggets for Jehan). The most basic ingredients in the hands of Grantaire turned into something amazing, because he loved spices and he knew how to use them. Cumin, garam masala, soy sauce and sweet pepper with a touch of curry powder were enough to marinate the chicken and make it taste fantastic. The crunchiness of the nuggets was enhanced by a small touch of corn flour that he had left from some corndogs he had made the week before. Caramelized onions were Grantaire’s favorites, because you could transform them into something amazing with just a bit of sugar, butter and a touch of spice.

“So, who’s cynical now?” he smiled teasingly when Enjolras tried his creation.

“It’s...amazing, Grantaire, you’re a very talented cook” he smiled back, genuinely “I've never seen someone use so little resources and make so much of them”

“Yeah, I don't know, you just learn when you find yourself freakin’ hungry and with two or three things left to use…” Grantaire’s smile turned into an awkward one, he was not expecting Enjolras’s appreciation to be so open.

“That’s why he’s the Messiah, he multiplies the nuggets!” Bahorel’s mouth was completely full, which was not reason enough for them to avoid talking, and ended up spitting everything in the process.

“Manners, you disgusting ass!” Éponine hit them with her elbow.

“Well, excuse me, Effie Trinket” they replied.

After dinner, when those who didn't want to impose on Grantaire without his permission were leaving for the night (less than half of them, actually), Enjolras approached him once again.

“I apologize if I came across…harsh” he hesitated before choosing the word “I really enjoyed your food”

“Thanks” Grantaire, uncharacteristically, was at a loss for words “Sorry if I acted like an ass too”

Enjolras just smiled and waved, leaving Grantaire’s apartment with Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

Grantaire’s food was, like him, unexpected. A bunch of elements that may repel or confuse most people, but that put together and properly understood, bloomed into something clever and worth the try.

* * *

Bahorel’s grandparents from their mother’s side were from Salta, known as the prettiest province of Argentina; their grandma (or how they called her, _abuelita_ ) had been born in Buenos Aires and moved to Salta when she was a little girl, and their grandfather was  _Qulla_ , an indigenous community of South America.

People tended to think that empanadas were a typical Argentinean dish that you could get anywhere in the country, but Bahorel severely corrected the assumption: different provinces had their different characteristic recipes of empanadas. Bahorel’s favorites were, without a doubt, Empanadas Salteñas, those which where characteristic of Salta, but they might be a bit biased.

Making empanadas was fun. It was a kind of recipe that you could share with many people, because you had to make the dough (if you didn't buy it already done, but Bahorel was taught better than that), cook the filling, let it cool and then proceed to make the actual empanadas and the appropriate _repulgue_ (or pattern, but Bahorel would have scolded you if you didn't use the actual Spanish term for it). In Bahorel’s family, it involved everyone, because there were many mouths to feed, many empanadas to make and, therefore, everyone had to help out. And poor you if _abuelita_ caught you not working on your empanadas.

So, as a good grandson, Bahorel had learned to keep everyone working for their freakin’ food if they wanted to eat on that very day; but it was Bahorel _and Bahorel alone_ who was to make the filling.

They used actual meat for it, not grinded meat, chopped with the knife to keep the pieces juicy and tasty. There was onion and pepper in many recipes of empanadas, but Salteñas were the ones that also added chopped potato to the filling, as well as veal fat. Bahorel insisted that meat-based empanadas were nothing without cumin, and the spicy smell filled the air, together with the pepper powder. For Jehan, and sometimes for Joly as well, Bahorel made the best _humita_ empanadas, which had a filling of creamy-corn and a precise touch of nutmeg.

“I hate how good you are at this” Feuilly commented while trying eir hand on the _repulgue_ “and I don’t know how you manage with those huge fingers of yours”

“Practice, young grasshopper” they answered “I should take you to _abue_ ’s house so she teaches you shit, she’s gonna love you”

“Why?” Feuilly asked, rising an eyebrow.

“Because you’re the most hardworking human being on the planet and the second one is my _abuelita_ ” he laughed wholeheartedly “She’s gonna love you more than she loves me”

“Everyone loves Feuilly more, ey’s the favorite of everybody” Grantaire said, also attempting the _repulgue_ with concentration “then comes Combeferre”

“What?!” Courfeyrac, whose _repulgue_ looked awful and had to be re-done by Bahorel, sounded distressed “In what place am I, then?”

“Don’t ask for information you can’t handle” Bahorel changed him from _repulgue_ duty to egg-painting duty so he didn't ruin any more empanadas with his lack of focus.

Bahorel’s empanadas were not only a strong and spicy treat but also a moment for everyone to join in and enjoy the moment. They were an occasion more than a dish, to come together and share the day. Just like Bahorel, their empanadas were a convergence for different people to enjoy together.

* * *

Éponine did not have a kitchen. She had a corner in her living room/common room/everything that was not used as a bedroom or bathroom, which was used as a kitchenette of sorts. Two other rooms were used as bedrooms, one was hers and the other one was Gavroche’s and, when Azelma escaped their parent’s home (which, to Éponine’s relief, started to be more frequently), she shared the room with her sister.

As a result of the lack of space and very old and second-hand equipment, Éponine’s kitchenette had a fridge, a stove and a microwave. No oven, either electric or gas-powered, and no table or dining room chairs, they all ate in the sitting room because, well, it was right there.

Her lack of resources and her responsibility of being the eldest sibling transformed her in the queen when it came to cooking everything in a mug. She could make dinner, dessert and breakfast in mugs. It saved time, resources and dishes that, thanks to Gavroche, were really scarce; and the variety kept her siblings entertained and eating well. Because Éponine paid attention to what crap she put in her food, mind you.

Éponine had an entire menu that consisted in mug recipes alone: from main courses like quiche, meat loaf, mac and cheese, French toast, scrambled egg or cheese bread; to desserts like cinnamon roll, fruit cobbler, Nutella cake, lemon cake, sugar cookie, cheesecake, chocolate chips cookie, fudge s’mores, vanilla cake, brownie and blueberry tart. And the list kept expanding through both Éponine’s creativity and Pinterest ideas.

At least once every month, they all took their favorite mug and visited Éponine’s apartment, where she did whatever recipe they preferred in it. Some liked salty, some liked sweet but everyone loved the practicality of it and how easy it was to watch a movie marathon while eating various dishes this way.

“What if you opened a mug restaurant?” Grantaire commented, enjoying his French toast.

“That’s the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard” Éponine scoffed “Who would want to pay for stuff that you can do yourself?”

“The world is filled with people who would rather pay others than do something themselves” Enjolras said, in between bites of his quiche “But I think you should have a blog for these recipes. They’d be incredibly helpful to people who wouldn't afford them in a restaurant but would find them incredibly helpful”

“You mean people like _me_?” Éponine smirked.

“Maybe, maybe others, you never know how far a blog can reach, especially if people find it helpful” Enjolras continued.

“She wouldn't get any money from a blog, Enjolras” Grantaire frowned.

“Maybe not at first,” Feuilly added “but I agree with Enjolras, it would be a great idea. I know I could use a blog like that!”

 “Me too!” Cosette agreed “My papa has no idea how to cook himself almost anything and works too much to stop for an hour and prepare something; when I’m not home, I’m worried he eats at all, things like these could help out people who have no time to lose in the kitchen yet want to eat something home-made rather than bought.”

“What if a food network ends up hiring you and gives you a tv show after a while?” Bahorel was scraping even the last crumbs of their fudge s’mores.

“That would be so _awesome_!” Courfeyrac had finished his Nutella cake a while before and was hoping he could have another one later “You have to do this, ‘Ponine, we’ll help you promote it!”

“You’re all insane…” Éponine scoffed but couldn't help smiling, as she took some of the mugs back to the kitchenette.

A couple of weeks later, Éponine did start a blog with recipes and it didn't take long for it to become increasingly popular, popular enough that her followers requested her to start a YouTube channel with the step-by-step instructions of her recipes, and Éponine found herself turned into a food blogger, against all her expectations.

She had never eaten in fancy restaurants and didn't even own cook books or exotic ingredients, so she never expected to be good enough for something of that magnitude, but her friends assured her that it wasn't about all that. Éponine cooked for her siblings, to keep them fed and happy and out of the streets, and that care and love showed in her simple recipes. People like her and many others around the world could see it and thanked her for her ideas every day.

* * *

Joly loved pizza. It may have started with his fascination with the 90s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon when he was a kid, or maybe with the fact that his dad was Italian (his mom was from Senegal, in case you were wondering). Still, Joly was not very keen on eating take-away pizza, because he didn't trust the ingredients they used, the way they prepared it and even less how they packed it for delivery. Joly rarely ate take-out food or fast food, not so much because of the components but because he didn't trust the hygiene standards of the entire process it went through.

So, throughout the years, Joly had perfected a recipe of gluten-free pizza that not only matched his standards of healthy food and hygienic preparation, but also had become his friends’ favorite pizza in the world. Take-away pizza was not an option anymore, not when you could have Joly’s pizza instead.

The sauce invaded the air with the smells of crushed tomato, olive oil, sea salt and oregano, and Joly added a touch of sugar and a tablespoon of ketchup, to lower the acidity of the tomato. The crust had, apart from the wet ingredients, a combination of four types of flour: tapioca, white rice, gram and sorghum flour.  He was picky with his mozzarella and Parmesan cheese for the topping, his dad had taught him how to choose them and how to know they were good quality; and he also added basil on top, sometimes replaced by caramelized onions or smoked pepper (always vegetables, so Jehan could enjoy it too).

“You've ruined pizza for me, Joly” Éponine sighed “I used to be content with the crap they sell everywhere but now I know for a fact that it’s crap”

“We totally have to marathon the Ninja Turtles cartoon while eating this” Courfeyrac commented “and I’ll bring my Michelangelo pajamas”

“He was my favorite too!” Joly brought another pizza from the kitchen.

“Wasn't he everyone’s favorite?” Bahorel asked with a noticeable string of cheese hanging from their lower lip.

“No, Combeferre liked Donnie and Enjolras loved Raphael” Courfeyrac laughed “When we were kids and played, we had to pretend Leo was captured or something”

“You guys are crazy, Leonardo was the best” Marius said, and everyone became silent.

“This is going to be like that Napoleon argument, isn't it?” Combeferre sighed.

“I personally liked Master Splinter better” Feuilly shrugged.

“That’s because you _are_ Master Splinter” Bahorel laughed wholeheartedly.

Joly smiled and cut the new pizza, which was going to disappear as fast as the first one had. He didn't mind, though, as long as it made his friends happy. Joly’s pizza meant sharing a happy moment together and having all the people he loved around him; it was a reminder of Joly’s friendship, because he thought in everyone while making it.  

* * *

Feuilly loved learning. The world was so vast and filled with different rich cultures, you couldn't just stand by and not want to learn more about them. Feuilly was an orphan and had never been adopted, ey had grown up in the system to later face the world on eir own, with just a small backpack and a few books. Courfeyrac had once told em that ey was like Anastasia in the animated film, but that had angered Enjolras to no end, because he had always hated the historical misrepresentation of that movie _(“it’s disregarding the fights of the proletariat and the revolution to focus on the monarchy, how is that entertaining?”_ ) which had led to Courfeyrac arguing that the songs where good and many parodies had been born to Enjolras’s expense from the sharp minds of Courfeyrac ( _“some Marx holds me safe and warm”_ ), Bahorel ( _“if I can Lenin to do it, you can Lenin to do it”_ ) and Grantaire ( _“people always say life is full of Trotskys”_ ).

All comparisons aside, Feuilly had never seen eir situation as a tragedy. Ey felt that, having no strings attaching eir to a certain legacy, ey could be a child of the world in general. Feuilly had adopted the world as soon as ey stepped outside the orphanage.

Ey had decided to keep journals of the things ey saw and the people ey met throughout the way. Feuilly had traveled through Europe with little-to-no money, sleeping where ey could and eir plan was to pick up part time jobs along the way, not only to get enough money to move on but also to absorb the culture. In eir first stop, chance had taken em to work as a waiter in a small restaurant and it was then and there when ey decided that in every stop, ey was going to look for a job in either a bar or a restaurant or even a pub; somewhere where food was served and people gathered to enjoy a good meal.

Feuilly had taken notes and written journals entirely about recipes, culinary secrets and family legacies from people’s kitchens. Every time they decided to eat at Feuilly’s, the food was radically different but always delicious.

One of the all-time favorites came from a Japanese restaurant he had worked for in Italy. It was owned by a _Nisei_ cook (second generation Japanese); and they served fusion food, mixing their Japanese cuisine with Italian family meals. The recipe Feuilly had loved the most and the one ey could cook to all eir friends without distinction was rice spaghetti with vegetarian Bolognese sauce. The noodles were gluten-free and soft, and the sauce involved three kinds of mushrooms: Shimeji, Enoki and Shiitake; along with carrot, onion, tomato, miso, and a touch of garlic and ginger.

The smell of the mushrooms was enough to make everyone hungry while waiting; and Bahorel, as they often did, tried to dip a crumb of bread into the sauce while Feuilly cooked, but ey kicked them out of the kitchen with authority.

“You don’t go around doing that in restaurants, do you?” ey scolded.

“They should allow it!” they answered, leaving the kitchen and joining the rest of their friends in karaoke.

After Éponine’s and Cosette’s extremely fantastic rendition of Rent’s ‘Take Me Or Leave Me’, Feuilly served the pasta and, in a very rare occurrence for this group, everyone was silent. Because they were all eagerly eating, that is.

“This is amazing” Enjolras was the first to speak.

“I rarely eat mushrooms at all but these are pretty great” Éponine smiled “Gav may actually eat this”

“Well done, Anastasia” Bahorel mocked, and Enjolras’s face contorted into the greatest frown you’d ever see.

“Oh no, not again” Combeferre sighed.

“ _Have you heard? There’s injustice in St. Petersburg!_ ” Courfeyrac sang.

 _“Have you heard? But this movie doesn't care!”_  Grantaire continued, despite Enjolras’s death glare.

Yes, Feuilly was filled with stories of eir travels and many different people ey had encountered but, by far, eir favorite people were gathered around em on that very table. Ey had finally found eir family.

* * *

Marius couldn't cook to save his life. Actually, he sort of owed his life to the Maruchan Company for a period of time between the day he left his grandfather’s house and when Courfeyrac took him in his old apartment and fed him properly. Once he had become a part of the group of friends, he had enjoyed home-made food once again, without having to risk setting his kitchen on fire or having to spend all the money he had left that month.

However, despite his inability to prepare anything more complicated than instant ramen or cold sandwiches, Marius had arrived to the apartment Courfeyrac shared with Combeferre and Enjolras with the sole intention of asking him to help him achieve what could possibly be one of the most complicated desserts for a home cook: a souffle.

“Why on earth would you want to make strawberry souffle?” Courfeyrac, face and hands colored red with pureed strawberries, was taking out of the oven the flattest souffles in the world.

“I didn't think something that only involved eggs, sugar and strawberries was going to be so complicated to make…” Marius sighed, defeated, emptying the ramekins that had failed souffles in them.

“But why are you so keen on these things? Can’t we make cookies or something?” Courfeyrac let himself fall on a chair.

“I just…I wanted…” Marius’s cheeks turned a shade that resembled the strawberries on his hands “I read they were romantic treats? And I wanted to give them to Cosette?” he covered his face with his hands, smearing it with strawberries and sugar “She’s always baking amazing things and I just wanted to give something back, as a token of my appreciation and love…I’m an idiot, I know, but I just thought…”

In that moment, Enjolras exited his bedroom with books in his hands and a backpack on his shoulder, barely glancing at the mess the kitchen had become and heading towards the door.

“Did you pre-heat the oven correctly?” he said, not even looking at Marius or Courfeyrac as he searched for his key in the key-holder.

“Excuse me?” Marius asked, unsure whether he was talking to them or to the immensity of the universe around them.

“You have to pre-heat the oven to at least 350 degrees before putting them in. If your temperature isn't correct and your oven is cool, they’ll never rise properly.” And with that, he turned to them, and announced “I’ll go to the library, I’ll be back in a couple of hours” and left the apartment.

“So that was it!” Courfeyrac stood up with renewed spirits “Let’s try again!”

Marius was frozen in his spot, looking at the door as if Enjolras was still there.

“How did he…?”

“Come on, Marius!” Courfeyrac took more eggs out from the fridge “I thought you wanted to do this for Cosette!”

It turned out that Enjolras was right and Marius and Courfeyrac were finally able to finish the souffles, which Marius alone was able to recreate for Cosette when he invited her to dinner in his own apartment.

“I made these, I hope they aren't that terrible” he offered timidly, being extra careful not to move the dessert around too much, always worried that he could still ruin them somehow.

“You made strawberry souffle for me?” Cosette’s smile was bright and genuine “Marius, that’s wonderful!”

“You aren't obliged to eat it if it’s bad, though, I just want you to know that before you try it” he sat down again and wondered how he could face tests in front of the whole class or how he could keep his cool in a protest-turned-riot but he was so anxious when it came to something as small as a souffle.

However, Marius knew, in the bottom of his heart, that it wasn't about the dessert.

“It’s perfect” Cosette’s smile didn't falter as she ate spoon after spoon of the treat “Try it, you’ll see for yourself”

Marius did, his expression confused. He was so focused on making the thing not look flat and sad, that he hadn't really thought much about the actual taste of it. Surprisingly, it was not as bad as he thought it would be…it was actually pretty good.

“Wow” he let out, unintentionally.

“Don’t be so surprised” Cosette laughed “You should know by now, Marius Pontmercy, that if you put your head into something and try with all your might, you always accomplish what you set yourself to do. It’s one of your many talents.”

“Cooking isn't really my thing, though” he scratched his neck awkwardly.

“And that’s why I feel so thankful that you did this for me. I really appreciate it.” She reached him and softly kissed a bit of the dessert from his lips.

Marius Pontmercy could be gentle and kind, but when he set himself to do something, especially when it was for others, he was a fierce force of nature and didn't give up easily. He believed there was nothing more fulfilling than the smile of those he loved.

* * *

The bake-sale was to start any minute and someone was still missing. It wasn't in itself a strange occurrence, most of the times there was someone running late, either Bossuet who had fell in a random hole on the street, Joly who was feeling sick, Grantaire who had fallen asleep, or Marius who had got himself lost two blocks away from his own apartment. The strange thing was that the one missing this time was Enjolras.

The same Enjolras who was always in time, the same Enjolras who took their group extremely seriously, the same Enjolras who had proposed the bake sale for charity in the first place. Everyone, except for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, were feeling uneasy about the situation and didn't know what to expect.

“Should we try calling him?” Joly proposed “Maybe something happened to him, maybe he’s been involved in an accident and…”

“He’s fine, he’ll be here any moment” Combeferre interrupted Joly’s train of thought before it got him anxious.

“There he is!” Courfeyrac pointed out, and everyone turned to the door of the cafe where Enjolras was entering with a pretty tall paper package.

“I’m sorry I’m late, I baked it this morning because I thought it would be practical, but then I realized I had no way of transporting it safely and…” he carefully deposited the package in the table where all the food was gathered “what’s wrong?”

“What in the world is _that_?” Bahorel didn't bother disguising their surprise.

“It’s a croquembouche” Enjolras simply answered, to everyone’s bewilderment.

“You’re shitting us” Grantaire sneered “You didn't bring a freakin’ croquembouche”

“Oh please please _please_ let me show them” Courfeyrac looked like a child in a candy store, delighted by his friends’ surprise.

“Calm down, Courfeyrac” Combeferre sighed, ready to appease the storm that was brewing.

“You expect us to believe that you, who rarely ever eat out and rarely ever step into a kitchen can bake a croquembouche?” Éponine cocked an eyebrow.

“I did, I…” Enjolras wasn't able to finish his statement because as soon as Courfeyrac peeled the paper of the package, everyone gasped.

Before them was one of the most delicate and carefully arranged croquembouches they've ever seen. It was precisely ordered and decorated with soft figures of dry caramel that made it look like smeared in traces of pixie dust. It was magical.

“What the actual fuck is that?” Bahorel was the first one to put into (rather rude) words everyone’s thoughts.

“I already said, it’s a…” Enjolras begun.

“We know what it is! We mean, how did you do that?” Feuilly inquired, afraid to touch the arrangement and destroy its perfection in some way.

“Well, you need to bake the profiteroles…” Enjorlas was about to explain, but the stares of his friends told him he was not answering correctly once again “Combeferre…”

Combeferre, who was fluent in both Enjolras and Courfeyrac, sighed and offered Enjolras a seat.

“Just tell them, Enjolras, they’ll listen” the last part was accompanied with a severe look to the group, announcing it was a touchy subject and they had to behave.

Courfeyrac sat on Enjolras’s other side, smiling eagerly and waiting for the truth to unfold. Courfeyrac was the only one immensely enjoying the situation, not because of lack of sensitivity but because he had been waiting for his friend to open up about the matter and share it with the rest of the group for a long time. Things that brought the group together were Courfeyrac’s favorite subjects.

“So what? Are you secretly a chef?” Bahorel asked.

“No, my mother is” Enjolras, usually fluent in every matter, had trouble finding the right words this time around “She is a pretty famous chef who specializes in French cuisine”

“Really?” Cosette inquired “I keep track of a lot of female chefs in France and I don’t remember anyone with your last name…”

“She uses her maiden name,” Enjolras closed his eyes, expecting the reaction before the words had left his mouth “Anne-Sophie Darroze”

“WHAT?!” Grantaire stood up in a single movement and earned a glare from Combeferre “your mother is a Michelin Star restaurant owner?!”

“Three Michelin Stars as of this year, yes” Enjolras sighed “I learned with her”

“You learned in her _Michelin Star restaurant_?” Grantaire still wasn't sitting down and Combeferre was starting to consider tying him to the chair.

“I might have interned there…as a Sous-Chef for 6 months, when I was 17…” Enjolras frowned, waiting for Grantaire’s comment.

“YOU DID _WHAT_?!” he exclaimed.

“Ok, wait, hold the fuck up” Bahorel interrupted “What the hell is a Michelin Star? What do tires have to do with food?”

That sole comment was enough to reduce the group to laughter, which served to lower the tension and let everyone regain their seats.

“Your mother is a prodigy, Enjolras!” Cosette’s eyes were gleaming, and not just with the tears of laughter she had to wipe away “Food & Wine called her ‘one of the most innovative and creative chefs in France today’!”

“You remember the quote?” Éponine smirked, unbelieving.

“I’m kind of a fan” Cosette admitted “You must be just as talented! I could never bake a croquembouche successfully…could you teach me? I’d buy all the materials!”

“Oh, calm down there Masterchef” Bahorel interrupted “The most important thing here is…why haven’t you been feeding us, especially me, all these amazing dishes?”

“You should try his Foie gras in duck jus or his Bouillabaisse” Courfeyrac said with a dreamy smile “and oh god his _Éclair_ …”

“Courfeyrac, you’re not helping” Combeferre frowned.

“Why did you keep it a secret from us?” Feuilly asked “You thought we’d abuse your superpower and make you cook 24/7?”

“No it’s not…” Enjolras sighed “It’s…complicated”

Combeferre kindly touched Enjolras’s shoulder and Courfeyrac smiled encouragingly, offering him support.

“Since my father and I…had our misunderstanding and I left the house,” Enjolras began “seeing my mother wasn't easy. I knew that if she kept a constant contact with me, he was going to bother her about it and pester her with questions, and even if she doesn't agree with our terms of departure, she agrees with him that this is not a stable life for me…he believes it because he despises the cause, she is worried about my safety. Anyhow, I can’t see her very frequently if I want to avoid him, and it hurts being parted with her. It’s a sacrifice I made for our group and our cause and I don’t regret it, but I do miss her. Cooking reminds me of her, just like it reminds you of your families, your journeys and who you all are. It’s personal, in a way, it’s a connection to one’s history. And for me, it’s a connection to my mom. She would have liked me to follow her footsteps, but I couldn't use extremely expensive ingredients to create dishes for a bunch of people, while the majority has nothing to eat at all. I like cooking, but I love the cause. So even if I like it, sometimes it hurts too much. It reminds me of what I left behind…or _who_ I left behind.” he smiled “I wasn't ready to tell this to you all because I knew you were going to try to make me feel comfortable with it and ask me to cook, because you’d see that I enjoy it, and I didn't want to face that yet. But just as Courfeyrac and Combeferre have been extremely supportive, I know you’ll be too from now on. I really wanted to do something special for this bake sale, because I want to use my knowledge to help, not to show-off or to get money for myself.”

They all smiled encouragingly, all but Grantaire.

“This is bullshit” he sneered.

“Grantaire…” Combeferre scolded.

“I fed you fucking nuggets! _Of course_ you thought my pantry was shit, you were born between goddamn truffles and olive oil!” his distress and embarrassment was noticeable in his eyes as he stood up and everyone stayed silent, waiting for him to continue “How can we invite you to eat now that we know your standards? Of course you didn't go to stupid restaurants with us, they must have looked like cheap shit to your pallet”

“It’s not like that” Enjolras stood up as well “I appreciate all of your food because it’s yours, you all make it what it is and that makes it special…my mom actually thought your nuggets were very resourceful…”

“You told _your mom_ about my stupid nuggets?!” Grantaire exclaimed “Is it fun to humiliate me or…”

“I wasn't trying to humiliate you, why is it so hard for you to see your own value sometimes? Everyone here cooks from the heart, including you, and that’s what matters to me” Enjolras stood closer to Grantaire, who frowned.

“Who are you, Gusteau?” Grantaire smirked “You probably don’t even understand the reference…”

“He has a Remy plushie in his desk” Courfeyrac winked with mischief “He understands the reference alright”

“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras blushed.

“A Remy plushie, God, you’re a giant dork, did you know that?” Grantaire smiled, genuinely this time, and Enjolras smiled back.

“Would you make your food again, even if I’m a dork with a famous chef for a mother?” his smile never left his face.

“Only if you make a croquembouche for us when I do…if you’re not afraid of teaming up with an unprofessional home cook, that is” Grantaire teased.

“ _'Only the fearless can be great’_ ” Enjolras smirked and Grantaire playfully elbowed him for his Ratatouille quote.

Enjolras had been born in a world that was different from the one he defended, but that didn't make him insensitive to it. Enjolras didn't share all of his friends’ concerns and customs, but he did understand and respect them. Enjolras didn't find comfort in sharing the dangers of his cause, but he valued his friends more than his own life. Enjolras was severe and intimidating but had a human soul, capable of love and care, for the world and for his loved ones. And Enjolras, when he cooked, was as passionate and delivered as with everything else.

* * *

The Abridged Cookbook: 

  * [Paella Valenciana](http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/paella-valencia)
  * [Chicken Tikka Masala](http://www.nineletterfword.com/no-bun-in-the-oven-but-eating-for-two/healthy-chicken-tikka-masala-gluten-and-dairy-free/) (gluten-free)
  * [Matcha steam buns](http://emilie-autumn-interviews.tumblr.com/post/96452608479/emilie-autumns-rolling-scone-2092014-matcha) (gluten-free)
  * [Vegan Matcha and Banana Ice Cream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGzKagVKQvA)
  * [Lavender macaroons](http://plantfoodfabulous.com/2012/07/lavender-macarons.html)
  * [Tiramisu](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/giada-de-laurentiis/chocolate-tiramisu-recipe.html)
  * [Chocolate cake with mint chocolate chips frosting cupcake](http://sallysbakingaddiction.com/2013/03/03/chocolate-cupcakes-with-mint-chocolate-chip-frosting/)
  * [Shrimp gumbo with Andouille sausage](http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/shrimp_gumbo_with_andouille_sausage/)
  * [Vegetarian gumbo](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/food-network-kitchens/vegetable-gumbo-recipe.html)
  * [Home-made chicken nuggets](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQSiH4wDZXg) 
  * [Empanadas Salteñas](http://www.cocinerosargentinos.com/recetas/15/2606/Empanadas/Empanadas-salteas.html) (Spanish only recipe)
  * [Lots of mug ideas](http://www.pinterest.com/starberrycookie/food-in-a-mug/)
  * [Gluten-free pizza](http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Gluten-Free-Pizza-241924)
  * [Vegetarian Bolognese sauce](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1oPvRHeCYYA)
  * [Strawberry soufflé](http://www.cafenilson.com/2009/05/strawberry-souffle/)
  * [Croquembouche](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/croquembouche-recipe.html)



 

**Author's Note:**

> A few things:  
> \- Jehan's mug is named after a Sylvia Plath poem, in case you missed it  
> \- Joly's anxiety towards potentially bad food is based on my own personal experience dealing with OCD but I am not a hypochondriac so I apologize if I missed the mark and you're allowed to let me know. He usually opts for gluten-free food, not because he actually has celiac disease, but because of his hypochondria, that's why not all recipes are gluten-free.  
> \- I chose for Bahorel to call their grandma 'abuelita' in Spanish because she isn't Qulla like their grandpa, the term of grandmother in Quechua is 'awicha' but I wasn't completely sure if it's so in the variety of Quechua that Qullas in Salta use, so I made their grandma from Buenos Aires, the province (like me shhh)  
> \- Enjolras's mother is a combination of 3 people: Tamaki's mother in Ouran was called Anne-Sophie, which happens to be the name of the famous french chef Anne-Sophie Pic, who has a 3 Michelin Star restaurant; and her last name was borrowed from Hélène Darroze, another French chef who coincidentally was the inspiration for Colette in Ratatouille. 
> 
> This fic wasn't really complex but I hope the characterization was interesting enough and it was, at least, fun to read. It's unbeta'ed, so all the mistakes are my own responsibility. I made a picspam companion for this on tumblr here with the faceclaims I was thinking on when making this. I apologize if there's any problem with a recipe or a description of something in particular, let me know if you spot anything really bad. 
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading, you have no idea how much I appreciate that, especially now that I'm feeling so down with my writing. Have an awesome day! ♥


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